Page 24

At the hotel, they piled into the van out front. Not in formation, just sweaty, grudging proximity.

“Jesus,” Blitz muttered. “That’s my foot, Buck, you oaf.”

Buck shoved Blitz, who didn’t budge. “Move closer to the window. Your heavy ass is taking up half the row.”

“Make me, cowboy,” Blitz replied, adjusting his elbow to crush a little more spine.

“A backhoe couldn’t move him,” Buck grumbled.

Professor tried to slice through the tension with something about infrastructure codes for sloped concrete.

“Shut your egghead mouth,” Buck said, not even looking at him. “Or I’ll fit you for cement shoes.”

“I’ll help him,” D-Day said.

Buck wrinkled his nose. “Fuck, did you shower Blitz or just full-body rubbed yourself with your grandpappy’s lineament?” He gave him side-eye. “Hard to believe you keep a woman like Bree happy.”

Blitz smirked. “I do. She was the one who rubbed me down.”

A collective groan rolled through the van.

“Goddamn it,” Buck muttered.

“Gross,” Professor said. “Smells like camphor and cowardice.”

Even D-Day looked pained. “I need a new team.”

Zorro shifted. Christ, what a bunch of whiny bastards. From the front seat. Joker just watched, and ice settled in Zorro’s spine.

The BOPE compound emerged through the tinted van windows, fortress-sharp against the emerald crush of jungle, sun-scorched, immovable. Zorro’s trained eyes scanned the perimeter, taking in every detail with instinctive precision.

Reinforced concrete walls. Razor wire glinting like a promise. State-of-the-art cameras rotated in smooth arcs, capturing their arrival with surgical efficiency. This wasn’t designed to intimidate. It was built to contain. To withstand something that didn’t knock.

He clocked the movements of the alert sentries at the checkpoint gate. Operators, no question. BOPE didn’t posture. They executed.

His gaze flicked to his phone one last time before he’d have to stow it for training. Nothing. No reply. The ache was seismic. He just needed something, a sign she’d heard him, that she wasn’t drowning alone. That she still saw him as more than a uniform. He didn’t even know if it was about him.

The gates slid shut behind them with quiet finality.

Zorro stepped out into air heavy with heat and the scent of jungle flowers. BOPE operators in black tactical gear watched from precise positions, the skull-and-dagger insignia stark on their shoulders.

This wasn’t law enforcement. This was a war-tempered force built for urban siege.

Zorro caught Joker’s eye. They didn’t have to say it. Elite recognized elite.

Whatever was coming next…they’d be expected to rise.

“Move,” D-Day groused, crowding Zorro. “This isn’t Disneyland. Stop gawking like a wonder-struck toddler.”

A familiar voice rang sharply across the compound.

“Martinez!” Migs, standing at rigid attention by the main building, completely shattered protocol as he broke into an unrestrained grin and strode forward with open arms. Zorro grinned for the team.

For Migs. For the rhythm of brotherhood.

But inside, something still ached, heavy, sharp, and shaped like a woman who told him to leave her alone.

He moved quickly, practically running, abandoning all decorum. Zorro’s chest warmed instantly, and he met the young Brazilian halfway, clapping him hard on the back in a tight, heartfelt embrace.

“Damn, it’s good to see you upright, wormfood,” Zorro murmured warmly, pride filling him as he felt the strength of Migs’s return hug.

The memory of Migs’s body, limp and soaked in blood under jungle fire, surged unexpectedly in his chest as if his brain hadn’t finished accepting that the man was still alive.

But seeing him here, healthy, strong, and proudly wearing BOPE’s uniform, felt like a quiet victory.

Migs stepped back, eyes bright and animated. “I never got to thank you properly, man. Seriously. You’re the reason I’m standing here at all.”

Zorro barely had time to wave Migs off before Buck jumped in. But beside him, D-Day leaned in close, low, just for Zorro. “They’ll probably give you another medal.”

The words were quiet, aching. D-Day was making his point, and it hurt.

Zorro had been there for him through the bar fights, the blackouts, jail, dragging him half-conscious onto that C-130 so he wouldn’t miss the troop movement.

Zorro couldn’t save someone who refused the rope.

He begged D to open up to him, but the man was spiraling over Helen, and he couldn’t even save himself from drowning.

Zorro didn’t answer. His gut was too raw. He understood too well what kind of pain spoke like that.

Before Zorro could brush off the thanks again, Buck stepped up beside him, grinning broadly, eyes twinkling mischievously as he clamped a heavy hand on Migs’s shoulder.

“Last time I saw you, kid, you were about five minutes away from pushing up daisies,” Buck drawled, eyes glinting with warmth and mischief.

“Lucky for you, our resident pain in the ass here kept you above ground.”

Migs laughed out loud, a full, hearty sound that filled the austere compound with unexpected warmth. “I owe him my life.”

“Yeah, join the club,” Buck teased, rolling his eyes toward Zorro, who only shook his head in good-natured resignation. “He keeps us all patched together. Makes him impossible to live with.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the team. Joker’s quiet smile confirmed his silent approval, and the rest of the team relaxed visibly, the familiar teasing providing immediate reassurance.

Migs regained composure, straightening his uniform again, though his smile didn’t fully fade. “Captain Leite asked me personally to escort you to the ready room.” His gaze landed back on Zorro with earnest respect and gratitude. “Whatever you guys need, it’s yours.”

Migs turned sharply on his heel, motioning them forward. “This way.”

They followed him toward the sleek, modern main building. Zorro fell into step beside the younger man, noting the confident way he carried himself, the steadiness in his stride.

Inside, the building revealed a tightly controlled, high-tech nerve center.

The air was cool, dry, tinged with the faint hum of sophisticated electronics.

High-definition monitors lined one entire wall, broadcasting live feeds from across Rio, traffic junctions, neighborhoods, tactical training rooms, and city streets marked clearly with digital overlays.

A detailed 3D holographic map dominated the center of the room, glowing softly, marking points of interest and current threats with clinical precision.

“Captain Leite will join us shortly to welcome you officially. Please, make yourselves at home. Anything you need, ask.”

BOPE’s ready room itself was sleek, modern, and ruthlessly efficient. Metal lockers stood neatly arranged, each precisely labeled and aligned, their doors gleaming under the bright, sterile lights.

One locker door was cracked slightly open.

Inside, tucked between two meticulously stacked uniforms, Zorro spotted a photograph.

A happy couple. Arms wrapped tight, sun in their eyes.

His mouth went dry at the ache it generated.

Could that ever be him…and Everly? The thought came fast. Uninvited.

So sharp it nearly cut him. He felt sick with hope.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he exhaled through his nose and worked at centering himself.

Pull it back. Tuck it down. Don’t want what you can’t fix.

I f he couldn’t fix it…was it really his? Did he even deserve it?

Tactical equipment hung in ordered ranks along the walls, helmets, ballistic vests, communication headsets, and rows of carefully maintained weaponry. Every single piece of gear seemed to whisper readiness, preparedness, professionalism.

Zorro stepped deeper into the room, silently noting the level of meticulousness.

The quiet murmur of Portuguese commands floated from an adjacent briefing area, orderly and calm, a reminder that these men operated with the same disciplined efficiency he and his brothers lived by.

A young operator glanced up, gave him a crisp nod, professional acknowledgment passing easily between men who understood the weight of responsibility each carried.

As he looked around, taking in the quiet strength that permeated the place, Zorro felt an odd sense of comfort.

Here, in this unfamiliar yet deeply familiar environment, he understood the truth clearly.

Warriors everywhere spoke the same language, carried the same burdens, and shared the same resolve.

In this state-of-the-art Brazilian compound, he knew without a doubt, they were among warriors.

Zorro turned his head. The sound of boots on polished concrete was the only warning.

Captain Rafael Leite entered the ready room with all the presence of a man used to war, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and utterly unhurried.

He wore black fatigue pants, a tactical T-shirt that bore the faint scarring of sun and sweat, and a subdued unit insignia was heat-pressed just above the heart.

He stopped just inside the doorway. His gaze swept the room once, taking in the relaxed but watchful posture of the SEALs. Zorro watched him cross the threshold, noting the way the BOPE officers straightened instinctively, the way even Joker’s posture shifted.

Joker stepped forward and extended a hand.

“Captain Leite,” he said, voice low and steady. “We appreciate the invitation.”

The captain’s face shifted, a rare smile breaking through the severity of his bearing.

“Rafael, please, Joker. We will benefit from both of our perspectives, no?”

Joker nodded. “Yes. We’re already impressed by your setup. Let’s see what our guys can do together.”

Leite motioned them toward the rows of chairs flanking the central table. A 3D overlay of Rio’s tactical map glowed softly beneath the lights, casting green and amber shadows across their faces.